“Fair is foul, and foul is fair / Hover through the fog and filthy air,” chant the Three Witches at the end of Macbeth’s first scene. Like any dutiful Greek chorus, these Shakespearean Fates prophesy the tragedy to come, where betrayal, violence, paranoia, and tyranny run amok. Orville Peck begins his new album, Mule, with a similar narrative device. Emmylou Harris, Allison Russell, and Noah Cyrus—whom Peck told Rolling Stone were “the three witches of Macbeth of my country music story”—set the stage for another tragedy, one in which addiction, self-harm, and identity crises reign supreme. “Come along little darlin’ / Come hear the old tune / How men chase their darkness away,” they sing a capella on “Prologue (Eulogy of a Man Turned Mule).” The fourth record from country musician Orville Peck is his most personal, soul-baring record yet. Peck has been vulnerable in his songwriting before, particularly about the challenges that come from being an openly queer man in country music on songs such as Pony’s “Queen of the Rodeo” and Bronco’s “Kalahari Down.” Where Peck’s latest equinely-titled album differs is its linear storytelling and thematic focus. As the songwriter himself has told it, Mule takes us from point A to point B of one of the most harrowing years of his life: a break-up, a suicide attempt, a stint in rehab, and newfound sobriety. His persona hinges on the now-famous fringed mask that’s covered his visage since it first appeared on the cover of his 2019 debut, but Mule sees him take it off, his face and heart on full display. Across these thirteen tracks, Peck is plainspoken about his pain, so matter-of-fact and forthcoming about his wounds that his blunt delivery is almost jarring. “I hate it here, I don’t care, and I wanna die,” he sings about his facility on “Rehab Blues.” If not for the tasteful instrumental palette of marimbula, jaw harp, and resonator guitar, such a lyric would risk an oversimplification, but, delivered in his Johnny Cashian baritone, the sorrow feels sharper. No use in dressing up the ache in flowery language when it feels anything but. On the otherwise poetic “The Breeze, the Grass, the Mourning Dove and Me,” he’s at a loss for words. “I can’t think of what to say / Except for ‘stay’,’ just stay,” he begs over a jaunty trainbeat and sprightly fiddle. His high-pitched yelps in the outro pierce the facade of defeat he’s resigned himself to, as if he knows he’s capable of change but has otherwise succumbed to his misery, content to be discontent. Mule’s best songs are often its sparsest offerings, when Peck’s voice is front and center, clear against the negative space like it is on Pony opener “Dead of Night.” His deep baritone is the star of the show, as it is on “Blue Skies,” featuring Evan Weiss’ tremolo-drenched minor-key guitars and a menagerie of hand percussion—bongo, djembe, finger snaps—that rumbles like a tumbleweed across a deserted wasteland. Acoustic ballad “The Fall” exhibits his sonorous timbre, the vocal equivalent of a warm sunset, in all its glory. His voice coasts atop a bed of Kris Bowering’s suspended cymbals, Dillon Casey’s mournful steel guitar, and Matt Combs’ orchestral strings, all of which supplement but never overshadow Peck himself. Occasionally, things get too cluttered. Jay Joyce’s production is most effective when he lets stark atmosphere guide the song, but he sometimes smothers the tunes in busy arrangements that suffocate Peck’s voice. On “Already Gone” and “Run out of Road,” it sounds like Peck is fighting to be heard above a din that sounds more like the Black Keys’ corporate rock and less like the lived-in country he excels at. Sometimes, however, the bigger, poppier sounds work, such as on the screw-your-ex anthem “Too Little, Too Late,” which plays like a country cousin to the Strokes’ “Someday,” all carefree charisma and no fucks given. The tempo swings with the upbeat demeanor of a man happy to be alone, the drums and guitars swaying back and forth like the pair of saloon doors Peck just slammed on an old lover. The most poignant moment comes at its conclusion. The closing title track sees Peck mirror the Muses who kicked everything off. He invites us to take a walk with him, and he’ll regale us with tales of his hardships over some finger-picked acoustic guitar. At the same time, he cautions us about the perils of wallowing in past pity: “You can look back with regret, but you’re bound to hurt your neck,” he warns, ever the wise tour guide. Mule strikes a healthy balance, reminiscing but never to a fault. It’s a deeply introspective memoir of times fair and foul, but Peck knows you can’t get too personal with the mask still on. Before, his countenance was visible between the fringes, hints of a smile or a frown barely detectable. Here, he leaves his feelings out in the open, ugly and beautiful and everything in between. [Warner] Grant Sharples is a writer, journalist, critic, and musician. His work has also appeared in Interview Magazine, Uproxx, Pitchfork, Stereogum, The Ringer, NME, and other publications. He lives in Kansas City. You can follow him everywhere @grantsharpies.